Once Upon a Time of Death
by miss-bagel
Summary: Beautiful women all over London are turning up dead, and Sherlock and John must investigate and connect the murders. Who's behind all of these seemingly fairytale-based homicides?
1. I'll Have Her Bones

The alleyway was dark and cold, the tepid light from a nearby streetlamp collecting in the pools of stagnant water. The brick was rough, the reddish color barely masking the faint traces of blood.

She crouched down by some rubbish heaps, shivering. Her eyes were red, her knuckles white as she clutched her thin, scratched arms to herself. She breathed with difficulty, her teeth chattering.

Something moved in the dark recesses of the alley.

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She forced her weakened body to remain perfectly still. She couldn't let him find her again.

Four steps on the wet pavement.

She shut her eyes, fighting back a whimper.

Four more steps. Closer and closer.

She tightened her hold on her mouth as a dark figure came into view.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum," the figure said in a low, smooth tone.

Her eyes widened.

"I smell the blood of an young woman…" the man continued, sibilant and dark.

She shrunk against the wall as quietly as she could, the man's hulking figure slowly lurching down the alley, dragging a metal bat behind him.

The man stopped near her, taking in a deep breath of the dank air. "Be she alive, or be she dead."

Her heart pounded. Her hands shook. The scream was now a lump in her throat.

The man slammed the bat on one of the rubbish bins. Suddenly, all that she could see was his grinning face as he stared at her, his eyes bloodshot, his face glistening with sweat.

He scraped the bat along the ground. "I'll have her bones to grind my bread," he whispered.

She screamed. And screamed. And then screamed no more.


	2. Grim Weather

"Grim weather we're having," John remarked from the window.

Sherlock lazily dragged the bow across his violin, the resulting screech unpleasant. "Really? I hadn't noticed," he drawled.

John turned and looked at him. "Really? Sherlock Holmes? Not noticing something?" he said teasingly.

Sherlock looked at him with disdain. He pointed the bow at him. "I only take notice of what I need to notice, you know that. Anyway, I'm not in the mood," he said, sounding slightly hurt.

He scraped the bow across the violin strings again. John winced.

"Well, frankly, I'm a little bit relieved at the lack of murders lately. After that business with the talking head, I needed a bit of a break. And you know, some people are actually happy when unexplainable murders aren't happening all over the place," John said.

"Astounding, isn't it?" Sherlock muttered.

John slumped into a chair. "Well, I'm sure someone will get killed soon," he said, his voice sarcastically cheerful.

Sherlock looked up at him. "You think?" he said eagerly.

John rolled his eyes and opened the paper. "Just keep wishing away, Sherlock. I'm sure something will turn up."

John was in the middle of an article on the wool industry when a drop of water landed in the middle of his paper. He turned the paper over, the drop soaking the front page and blurring the words.

Sherlock was holding a glass of water, his fingers wet.

"Really, Sherlock?" John said.

"I'm bored. I do these things when I'm bored," Sherlock said. "You know that."

"Better that than the gun," John grumbled.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Speaking of…"

"No," John interrupted. "I've hidden it."

Sherlock looked at him. "And you think that with my incredible deductive skills and powers of observation, I wouldn't be able to find it?" he asked incredulously.

John shrugged. "You tell me."

As Sherlock got up to prove his friend wrong, John cleared his throat. "But Sherlock," he said, "before you start your most likely incredibly short Case of the Hidden Gun that Isn't Yours, I read that there was a rather interesting murder near here. A girl was found beaten to death. Not interesting in and of itself, but she was found with four beans in her hand. Rather odd, if you ask me."

Sherlock stopped, his face suddenly breaking out in a grin.

"Thought as much," John said, folding the paper. "I'll get the coats."


	3. Four Beans and a Crime Scene

"Ah look, the pycho patrol," Anderson growled as Sherlock and John walked onto the crime scene.

Sherlock glared at him coldly. "If by that you mean that I _catch_ psychos, then you're quite right, Anderson. Surprisingly so, really. Usually all that comes out of your mouth is blithering nonsense."

Lestrade looked up from his notebook. "Ah, Sherlock, was just about to call you," he said. "And stop harassing my team, you know how that tends to annoy."

"We came over as soon as I read the morning paper," John said, giving Sherlock warning look, as his friend seemed to be deciding how best to drive the forensic scientist from the crime scene. "Bit odd, really, it being in the news before you got to the crime scene."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, it seems that the residents of this area tend to keep hush about these kinds of things. You know how it is."

"Yes," Sherlock said lazily. "In this kind of neighborhood, I suppose informing to the police wouldn't be their first choice. Can't say that I blame them," he glared at Anderson scathingly.

"Well, the body's over there," Lestrade said, nodding in the direction of a tarp-covered form. "It's a clear-cut beating, but the significance of the four beans in her right hand makes me think that there's more to this than, say, a mugging. Her wallets on her, as well as her jewelry."

"Have you identified the body then?" John asked.

"Yes, Jackie Eddings. Harp player," Lestrade said.

"Hardly sounds like the type to be wandering around here," Sherlock muttered, walking up to the body and lifting the tarp. "John, take a look, would you?"

"Right," John said, crouching down to look under the cover. "Just like the inspector said, looks like a beating. I'd say with something cylindrical, probably a bat. Cause of death most likely trauma to the head. It's just…"

Sherlock looked at him. "Just what?"

John peered at the body closely. "The amount of damage to the skeletal structure…I've never seen anything like it, at least not in hand-to-hand. The bones have been almost crushed completely in places. It looks like killing her wasn't enough."

"And the beans?"

John took a pen out of his coat pocket and gently pried the woman's fingers apart. "Look like ordinary beans to me," he said.

Sherlock stood up. "But why beans?" he said quietly to himself.

"Maybe she was coming back from market," Anderson interjected.

Sherlock turned and looked at him coldly. "Yes. She went to market and bought four beans, which she then carried in her hand through a rough part of London," he said sarcastically.

Anderson's face was stony. Lestrade rubbed his eyes. Sherlock straightened up. "Well then. It seems like you all have it figured out, hmm? John, I think it's time to leave."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Sherlock, you must have some idea of what's going on here!" he said, exasperated.

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked off, John running to catch up.

"_Do_ you have any idea of what's going on?" John asked.

"Nope," Sherlock said, hailing a cab. "Not much of one, anyway."


	4. The Trouble with Jackie

Sherlock paced around the flat energetically, clasping his hands in front of him, his eyes narrowed. John sat in an armchair, calmly drinking a cup of tea. "You okay?" he asked his nervous flatmate.

"Yes, yes, absolutely fine, now shut up and let me think," he snapped.

John raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, thanks for that," he muttered, taking a sip of tea.

Sherlock stopped and scratched his head, his black curls ruffling in the process. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I just don't know where exactly to start."

John smiled a little. "Well, you could always talk out loud. That helps, doesn't it?"

Sherlock nodded. "Quite," he said. "Okay."

He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. Suddenly, his thoughts began tumbling out. "Girl, about twenty-five, well-off from the looks of her clothes, her shoes were generally well-kept, but recent scratches and mud indicate that wandering in the alley only happened recently. Her fingers were calloused, but he rest of her hands was quite smooth, corresponding to her occupation as a professional harpist. Could be a student, but the expensive nature of her jewelry and attire suggests that she just came from a performance, most likely her own. The state of her body corresponds with a terrible beating, most likely focused on the skeletal structure to an almost obsessive degree. As you said earlier, the weapon was most likely a bat, judging by the size and shape of the wounds. All of this is the boring usual stuff, besides the concentration on the bones. And the beans."

"So what do you think the beans mean?" John asked, taking another sip of tea.

Sherlock rubbed his face. "The beans. The beans are the tricky part."

"What all do we have here, then? What are the unique elements of this case?" John pressed.

Sherlock looked at him. "My skull didn't talk back as much as you do," he said.

"I'd guess it didn't talk back at all," John replied.

"Depends on how I was feeling that day," Sherlock said, resuming his pacing. "Unique characteristics of the Jackie Eddings murder include one, she was a harpist; two, there was an unusual concentration on the skeletal structure; and three, four beans were put into her hand post-death."

John suddenly looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and looked back at him. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's just…this all reminds me of something…" John said, licking his lips in concentration.

"Reminds you of what?"

"A fairytale, actually."

Sherlock laughed. "A fairytale? Really, John, I don't see how—"

"Haven't you ever read Jack and the Beanstalk?" John interrupted.

"Possibly. My mother always tried to calm me by reading fairytales. Never really helped, and never really listened. It wasn't my fault that the postman had murdered someone—"

"Well, for some reason, this case has some rather peculiar similarities to that story," John interrupted again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Her name, for one thing. Jackie and Jack are similar. Then the beans. Jack bought magic beans in the tale. And then there's the harp. One of the characters in the story was a talking harp. You see what I mean?"

Sherlock had a faraway look on his face. "Yes, I seem to remember this now," he said, his voice as distant as his eyes. "And her bones, they were crushed , right? _I'll have his bones to make my bread_. Rather interesting, isn't it…?"

"If by interesting you mean twisted, then yes, it is," John replied. "So should we call the Inspector?"

"Do you know me?"

"Right," John said, setting his mug down and getting to his feet. "So what are we going to do next?"

"Fetch me a phone book and all the fairytale books at the library," Sherlock said. "It's time to do some research."


	5. Research

"So what exactly are we looking for, then?" John asked as he thumbed through a copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Sherlock had his nose buried in a Perrault book. "We need to compile a list of fairy tale characters, then cross-reference that with the London phone book. Any similarities will indicate possible targets for this murderer."

"But how do we even know it's a serial killer?"

"Really, John, why would someone go through all the trouble of creating such an elaborate murder if he wasn't going to strike again?" Sherlock said, still stuck behind the book. "It's like saying that you're going to stop writing a book after the first chapter."

"Could be a short story."

"Is that what you found out on your little blogging site? Learned about literature?"

John gave him a look, but his friend couldn't see it from behind the storybook. "Well, alright, you want a list."

Sherlock pushed over a pad of paper and a chewed up pen. "Have at it. I've already covered Hans Christian Anderson."

"So you have," John said, studying the list. "Don't you find this all a bit…boring?"

"Extremely so. But necessary."

John chuckled. "You're always the one complaining of boredom."

"And you're always the one so eager to help me with my investigations, but that doesn't seem to be the case right now."

John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock peeked over the book he had been reading, his eyes piercing. John could tell that he was smirking. "Alright, point taken," John sighed, picking up the book again. "Got shot in Afghanistan, shot a mad man through two windows, was in countless life-threatening situations, but sure, I'll read about princesses and fairies."

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, smirking. "I'm sure we'll be getting shot at soon enough."

John laughed. "I suppose so," he said, scribbling down some notes. "Let's just hope all of this actually helps us figure out who the next target is."

"And let's hope Lestrade doesn't decide to do another drugs bust. I'm afraid I may have put him off. You know how he gets annoyed when I fail to participate enough."

John nodded just as a knock came on the door.

"Well, bugger," Sherlock muttered.


	6. An Irregular Meeting

John held his storybook. Sherlock ducked behind his own. John rolled his eyes. "I suppose I'm getting the door, then," he sighed.

"If you insist," Sherlock said.

John heaved himself to his feet, casually plopping his book by Sherlock. "And I suppose you want me to read that," Sherlock said.

"If you insist," John replied, heading towards the door. He could hear Sherlock muttering about how much he'd have to forget after this case, all these blasted little fictions that were of no use to him outside of this case.

John opened the door to a nervous Mrs. Hudson. "Hello, dear, there's someone here to see Sherlock, but I just wanted to make sure you were expecting him. You know how visitors leave me uneasy after that cab business and that wiring man."

John looked over her shoulder and down the staircase. A teenager stood in the downstairs vestibule, rocking back and forth, heel to toe. He was quite dirty, and had some rather unsanitary-looking piercings. John stuck his head inside the flat.

"Sherlock, there's a young fellow to see you," he said to the detective's back.

Sherlock didn't even turn around. "Teenager? Rather dirty? Unfortunate piercings?"

"Um…yes, actually."

"Which one?"

"What do you mean which one?"

Sherlock turned around in his chair. "I mean, which teenager? Redhead? Glasses?"

John stared at his flatmate for a moment, then looked over the railing again. The boy looked up at him suddenly, peering cautiously through wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Glasses," John said, leaning back into the flat.

"Right, that'd be Barry, send him up straightaway."

John nodded to Mrs. Hudson, who bustled off down the stairs to tell the young man to go ahead up. John walked over to the table that Sherlock was still sitting at.

Sherlock looked up. "I suppose you're wondering who Barry is?"

"Yes, actually. Seems a bit odd that you've made friends with a bunch of teenagers, yeah."

"Baker Street Irregulars. They come in handy from time to time. They know these streets better than anyone else. They work for me from time to time. I sent out a text asking them to hunt around the area that poor woman's corpse was in. I offered ten quid to the first one who find anything interesting."

"Sherlock, you have the strangest ways of doing things."

"I thought that'd be expected at this point."

Barry slouched through the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fraying jeans. "'Ay, Mr. H," he said lazily.

Sherlock jumped to his feet. "What'd you find, Barry?" he asked excitedly.

"I mighta found somefink," he said, eyeing John. "Whozzat?"

"Dr. Watson, my flatmate," Sherlock said impatiently.

"'Ow do I know you've got ma money, mate?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held out his hand to John. "Ten pounds," he said.

John was taken aback. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock didn't move.

John grimaced and took out his wallet, putting ten pounds in the detective's hand.

Sherlock held up the money to the teenager's face. "You were saying?"

Barry pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. "Found this by a rubbish bin. Man, I can't be snoopin' 'round no gavers—"

"The police were still there?" Sherlock said, snatching the paper.

"Well, naw, but that tape was there, and…"

Sherlock handed the ten pounds to the kid, who saluted him and darted out of the flat. John closed the door behind him, shaking his head. He turned to see Sherlock staring intently at the paper.

"Well, what is it?" John asked, walking over.

Sherlock held up the now smoothed-out paper. It was an envelope. Addressed to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


	7. A Letter

Sherlock studied the envelope carefully. John scratched his head. "A letter?" he said.

"For me, apparently. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Ordinary paper, looks like the kind you'd most often find in the storerooms of offices," Sherlock said, squinting at the envelope.

John shifted his weight. "Well, are you going to open it or not?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him quickly. "Of course I'm going to open it. But I'd rather know all that I can about the sender of the letter before I just rip it open."

John pursed his lips. "Right."

Sherlock turned the envelope over. "Looks like the sealing of the envelope was done with an envelope moistener, another indicator of the person in question being located in an office." He paused.

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked up at him, smirking. "Want me to open it, then?"

"YES."

"Alright then," Sherlock said, deftly unsealing the envelope and letting the letter fall into his outstretched hand. He slid the envelope into his pants pocket and unfolded the letter, but not at the same time, of course.

John walked up and peered at the letter with interest.

The letter was written in chicken scratch, in a figurative sense only. Sherlock's eyes raced down the page from side to side, much as a fast driver on a late Saturday night after an evening in the pub. John kept pace. Therapists' notes were already hard to decipher, but he had still managed to become quite skilled in the art of upside-down reading.

Sherlock and John looked up at each other at the same time.

"Obviously someone doesn't want us looking into this case," John said.

"I suppose that would be the practical thing to do. Leaving it to the police and all," Sherlock replied.

They both smiled.

"Brilliant," John said.

"Quite," Sherlock said.

"So, a warning," John said, nodding at the letter. "_A room forbidden holds your death / Don't fathom deep, you'd lose your breath_. Rather cryptic, isn't it?"

"It's not just a warning," Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly. "It's also a clue."

"A clue?"

"The word choice here is very peculiar," he said. "_Don't fathom deep, you'd lose your breath_. Very peculiar, indeed. Rather nautical, don't you think?"

"I suppose so. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Of course you hadn't. This is only a hypothesis, mind you. Now, what fairytale could be related to the ocean?"

"The Little Mermaid," John said suddenly.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Yes, of course, Hans Christian Anderson! How did you know?"

"Oh, I saw the…a film version," John muttered.

Sherlock looked at John curiously. "Ah, I see. Well then, I think we should have look at the phone book, don't you?"

"Should we be looking for a redhead?" John said as he picked up the thick book.

"What?" Sherlock said incredulously.

"Never mind," John murmured, handing his friend the directory.

Sherlock grabbed the book and opened it, thumbing through it quickly.

John raised an eyebrow. "So what do we look under, little or mermaid?"

* * *

><p>AN: To be continued. Please review! Let me know what you think!


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